


A Neighborly Confession

by redpenny



Series: 'A Neighborly...' Series [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Body Image, Body Worship, Chubby Kink, Chubby Stiles Stilinski, Communication, Established Relationship, Firefighter Derek Hale, Kink Discovery, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Teasing, Weight Gain, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-19 11:03:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22009960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpenny/pseuds/redpenny
Summary: It's hot, is on the tip of Derek's tongue. He should tell him. He knows he should tell him. These past weeks, since their "argument" over a misunderstood text message, it feels like a lie of omission to keep it in.But saying it also feels like a confession of something else entirely. Something different, something more precarious, than just loving Stiles's body.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: 'A Neighborly...' Series [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1548832
Comments: 29
Kudos: 350





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A Derek POV follow-up from the last fic. In which he figures some things out and then reluctantly communicates.
> 
> This will be a few chapters, but shorter than its prequel.
> 
> This first chapter is pretty kinky sex. Probably? Excuse me while I go hide in a corner.

Derek wakes to gentle fingers stroking his hair and the slow rise and fall of a plush pillow under his head.

He'd arrived at Stiles's door today for the first time in two-and-a-half weeks, but the passionate reunion sex he'd anticipated had quickly fallen to the wayside. The relief of being home again, no matter that he hadn't even stopped by his own apartment, had brought long put-off exhaustion in its wake.

And so Stiles had simply led Derek into his bedroom. He'd given him soft kisses as he stripped Derek down to his undershirt, and then let him wrap himself around the comfortable curves of Stiles's body for a nap.

For all that Stiles normally wants to know everything, he's never pushed Derek for details on his jobs. Maybe it's from growing up with a Sheriff for a father or maybe it's because he hears enough to get the gist of them over the police radios. Or maybe it's just the way he instinctively seems to get Derek.

He listens when Derek talks. But usually Derek likes to leave the smoke and ashes behind and focus on anything else.

Like, right now, being back in bed with his gorgeous boyfriend.

He wraps an arm tighter around Stiles's waist and pushes a thigh between Stiles's chubby ones. The fingers stroking his hair pause, and then start again. He feels Stiles murmur something underneath him.

Stiles normally refuses, apparently on principle, to participate in the "fat guy cliché" of having his belly be a pillow. So this is clearly a special occasion.

Derek wishes Stiles would deem more days special occasions, because his midsection is round and chubby and has enough plush flesh to sink into. Far superior to Derek's own pillow.

He nestles his head more comfortably on the upper curve of his stomach.

"Derek?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you awake?"

Derek knows he'll have to give up his pillow if he answers that.

Stiles runs a hand down his back, toying with his undershirt. "Did they even feed you there? You look so thin."

"You don't," Derek murmurs absently. He rubs the curve of Stiles's lower belly, bare where his shirt's ridden up.

"It's called stress eating, dude," Stiles says, a tinge of embarrassment in his voice. "Sue me for being worried about you."

Derek twists up to look at him. "You didn't need to worry. It was fine."

"Hello? 'It' was a 42,000-acre fire with over 90 mph wind gusts and, as of two days ago, it was still only 5 percent contained," Stiles says, voice rising in both volume and pitch with each fact recited. "And your phone didn't even have reception!"

Derek sighs. He doesn't want to think about early-season California wildfires. He changes the subject with, "You shouldn't worry about your weight, either, Stiles. You feel really nice."

"Well, glad to hear I make a good pillow," Stiles says dryly. He pushes at Derek's shoulder. "Now, let me up. I'm going to make you breakfast."

It's late afternoon, going on evening, but Derek doesn't argue.

Newly showered and more awake, Derek leans against the kitchen doorway and watches Stiles whip up pancake batter.

When Derek had arrived at his door earlier today, between the surge of feeling home and the impending exhaustion, his mind had spared a brief thought to how big his boyfriend was looking.

Looking at Stiles now, he can see that it wasn't an exhausted illusion. He'd known that Stiles's weight hadn't stopped creeping up in the almost six months since they'd gotten together. But the weeks apart make it all the more obvious: Derek has a _noticeably_ heavier boyfriend than he used to.

Stiles sets a pan on the stove to heat up.

He's wearing Derek's clothes. Or, rather, he's wearing the Station 128 sweatshirt that Derek had procured in Stiles's size but claimed out loud as his own.

Stiles doesn't seem too bothered by the discrepancy in their sizes most days. He might not be as appreciative of the difference in their bodies as Derek is, but he hardly complains about the results of Derek's regular gym sessions. But he's also never made any secret of resenting that Derek can wear his clothes — as Derek is right now, shirtless and with Stiles's sweatpants tied tight to keep from slipping down his hips — but not the other way around.

Naturally, Stiles had seen right through Derek's scheme to rectify that. He'd proclaimed that he was a big boy — " _pun intended_ " — and hardly needed to be patronized to. And, also, that the 3XL that Derek had picked out was the wrong size, by the way.

And so this is the first time he's seen Stiles wear the sweatshirt.

It looks good.

Stiles looks good.

He also looks like the sweatshirt is definitely his size.

Derek steps up to him and touches his back.

"Hey."

"Hey." Stiles turns his head to look at him, lips curving up.

He's cute. From the bright sparkle of his light brown eyes, to the perky tilt of his nose, to the moles on his round cheeks.

"I missed you," Derek admits. He traces the soft underside of his chin with his thumb.

Stiles puts down the bowl and spatula as he turns to look Derek up and down.

"I think I forgot how hot you are," Stiles says. His gaze lingers on where Derek's sweatpants are riding low on his stomach. "Dude, how are you even real? How are you here?"

"I'm here." Derek tugs at his hips, pushing him back against the counter. "I missed you." He steps in closer. "I want you."

"Yeah." Stiles's eyes widen, pupils darkening. He licks his lips. "Yeah, okay."

As Derek leans over his round belly to kiss him, Stiles reaches around to flick off the stove.

His lips are soft and his mouth is hot. He tastes like Stiles. Tastes like home. And also tastes a little bit like the strawberries that are sliced up on the other counter.

Derek wants more than just a taste.

He sinks to his knees on the kitchen floor, reaching up to stroke over the bulge in the crotch of Stiles's jeans.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Stiles grabs for him.

"Let me, Stiles." Derek reaches for the fly of his jeans. He's wearing his biggest ones, two sizes up from the next-biggest. He likes to pretend this isn't his pants size, but he's been sneaking on this pair more and more often lately. He meets Stiles's eyes. "Please."

"You can't here. You know there isn't enough, um." He glances at his stomach, and then back at Derek. "Room."

Derek looks at Stiles's belly under his sweatshirt. It's far from covering his crotch, but it's still too heavy not to sink down and get in the way.

"There would be if you helped hold this," Derek reminds him, gently pushing up his lower belly.

Stiles's cheeks are flushed. "It's embarrassing."

"Is it?" Derek asks innocently, though he lets Stiles bat his hand away from his stomach and tug him back up off his knees.

"You know it is," Stiles whines.

 _It's hot_ , is on the tip of Derek's tongue. He should tell him. He knows he should tell him. These past weeks, since their "argument" over a misunderstood text message, it feels like a lie of omission to keep it in.

But saying it also feels like a confession of something else entirely. Something different, something more precarious, than just loving Stiles's body.

Changing location from the kitchen has its advantages, Derek has to admit.

Such as giving him time to tug off Stiles's clothes between increasingly hungry, stumbling kisses across the living room. And being able to spread Stiles out, naked and chubby, on the couch.

Derek swallows as he takes him in. He's fatter, _definitely_ fatter, than he used to be.

"You're fucking gorgeous, Stiles," he says softly.

Stiles whines, a more desperate sound this time, and Derek gives him a quick kiss before positioning himself between his spread thighs. Stiles has one leg on the couch, one off, and Derek smooths his hands over his hips as he bends down to kiss the soft roll of his lower belly.

" _Derek_."

Derek just hums and kisses a padded hipbone. Then the plump inside of a thigh. And then, once he's finished sucking a pinkening mark into the smooth pale skin, he finally gives into Stiles continued begging and writhing and sucks him down.

Stiles arches up but Derek squeezes his hips tight, keeps them in place as he savors the taste he's missed these couple weeks. The warm, thick weight on his tongue.

"Fuck," Stiles grunts out as he tries to bend over above Derek. "I want to watch."

Derek hums around his cock. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Stiles try to push his stomach in with a hand. But he can't see. Derek knows he can't. Even with Stiles's back propped on the couch cushions, bending over makes his belly round out further than he can suck it in.

Stiles gives up, swearing, and flops back down onto the couch.

Derek gives his wobbling belly a pat. Stiles is definitely no closer to being able to see over his belly than he was last winter. But it still doesn't stop him from trying.

Derek doesn't admit that the thought of it makes his cock twitch. Another lie of omission, probably. But, as he sucks up the head of Stiles's cock, the guilt disappears with the taste of him.

After more begging, and more swearing, Stiles groans out, "Jesus, Derek. Come here." He bends down again to reach out grabby hands for him. "Come up here."

Derek lets him pull him off his cock and up to meet his hungry, hot kisses.

It only takes a few jerks of Stiles's cock and he's coming over Derek's hand, over both their stomachs.

" _Fuck_." Stiles collapses into the cushions, panting. "You're so fucking good at that. Fuck."

He hasn't caught his breath before he's reaching down for Derek's sweatpants, but Derek pulls back. He shoves the sweats off himself as he drops his knee back onto the couch between Stiles's spread legs.

Then he takes in Stiles's lovely, softening cock, and the white streaks of cum glistening over his belly. Jesus Christ.

"Derek, come back." Stiles reaches for him, but he's lazy after he comes and Derek easily evades him.

"No. Let me —" Derek clears his throat. "Please."

He doesn't wait for an answer before dipping down and licking up the drops over Stiles's underbelly. He reaches down and gives his own cock a quelling squeeze as he takes in the taste of Stiles all over again, this time over soft, soft skin.

He hears Stiles whine out his name again, but he ignores it and props himself up with his arms on either side of his thick hips. He's too busy following the trail of stretch marks and glistening cum with his tongue.

"Fuck. Okay. Fine," Stiles gives in with a groan.

After Derek sucks up the last drops, he moves up to Stiles's belly button and sinks teasing kisses into the puffiness around it. There's more flesh here than there used to be, he thinks distantly.

Stiles buries his fingers in his hair as Derek rubs a hand up his upper belly. Even with Stiles lying on his back, it slopes up shamelessly. 

Stiles groans as Derek turns to his chest. His nipples get sensitive right after he comes, so Derek sucks at the soft flesh around them instead.

Derek would have thought Stiles had gained enough weight by now to make the softness over his pecs more like breasts — they're still so close — but the weight's mostly only obvious in the width of his stomach.

"Jesus, you're going to turn me on again," Stiles mutters.

"Yeah?" Derek kisses the soft side of his neck, then shifts up to kiss his softer jaw, and even softer chin.

"Yeah. Fuck. Definitely." Stiles tightens his fingers in Derek's hair. He pulls Derek up into a lazy, hungry kiss.

Derek's cock — neglected but far from uninterested — bumps into Stile's underbelly. Derek can't help a small thrust into the soft rise.

He frequently gets to savor the feel of his cock against Stiles's belly. It would almost be harder not to. It's always right there, big and plush and in the way. But Derek never lets himself indulge in more than an involuntary thrust or two against it.

More than that has always seemed like too much to ask.

It _is_ too much to ask. He knows that.

But a recklessness born of two-and-a-half weeks apart has him asking anyways, "Is this okay? Can I—"

"Yeah," Stiles says before he can finish his sentence.

Derek stills. He pulls back. Stiles meets his eyes, unconcerned.

"Yeah?" Derek repeats.

If there's any question of Stiles not knowing what he's asking, it's answered when Stiles grabs Derek's hips and pulls him closer, helping him thrust more firmly against his belly.

Derek stares at him.

"Yeah, Derek." Stiles's lips curve up. There's an amused sparkle in his brown eyes.

Derek reaches down to tug at the base of his cock, and then guides it against Stiles's doughy lower belly with a deliberation he's never really imagined. When Stiles tightens his grip on his hips, Derek thrusts again. The head of his cock slides over pliant fat.

"This is okay?" Derek asks, breathless. He still doesn't quite believe it.

"I like it," Stiles says. He tugs Derek into a gentle kiss. Derek can feel him smiling against his lips.

"You're going to come on me, aren't you?" Stiles asks a moment later, as if Derek isn't too close for anything other than that to be a possibility.

Derek can't do more than give him a jerky nod.

"You should," Stiles continues. His voice is quiet, like he's whispering a secret. "You should come on my stomach." 

Jesus Christ.

"Please." Stiles kisses him. "I want you to."


	2. Chapter 2

"You're still not too heavy," Derek assures Stiles as he tries to tug him down into his lap a few days later. Stiles's stomach immediately pushes, sexy and soft and stubborn, into Derek. He's changed into comfortable sweats because his formerly biggest pair of jeans were pinching. Derek sneaks his hands under his unbuttoned flannel.

"I didn't say I was," Stiles grumbles.

He's still tentative, though, and puts more of his weight on the couch cushions than on Derek.

"Relax," Derek says. He squeezes Stiles's plump sides.

Stiles gives him an inscrutable look. But when Derek tilts his head up for a kiss, he obliges.

He feels heavier than the last time he'd let Derek pull him into his lap. Derek doesn't know if he would have noticed if it wasn't already obvious he'd gotten heavier, but there's no chance he could have missed how much more space Stiles takes up in his lap now. He still fits, but it wouldn't take too many pounds to change that. With the way his weight likes to settle around his middle first, whatever he's put on these last months over again might be enough to do it.

The thought of Stiles bigger, fuller, climbing onto his lap only to find that he can't fit — it makes him groan into Stiles's kiss. And even as Stiles presses closer, clearly not unhappy with it, Derek has to pull away.

The twinge of guilt at the thought, along with his reaction to it, piles on top of all the twinges of guilt of the past several weeks. Stiles had put himself out there first, only for Derek to let him believe he was shooting him down.

Derek owes him better than that. Even if what he has to say doesn't end up being what Stiles had wanted to hear.

"You okay?" Stiles asks.

Derek nods. "Please don't take this the wrong way —"

"You realize that saying that guarantees that I'm going to? What is it? Am I too heavy after all?"

"No," Derek says. But Stiles is already moving to get off. Derek pulls him back down into his lap and looks him in the eye. "I just... I care about you, okay?"

Stiles's brow furrows.

"I care about you a lot," Derek reiterates.

"Ditto, man," Stiles says slowly. "Is this the part I'm supposed to take the wrong way?"

"No, I—" Derek says. He darts his eyes around the room. He's known for weeks he'd have to say something, but he still hasn't figured out what that is, exactly. "Look, you're hot, Stiles. Your body is just amazing. And I don't have to have some kind of — kink — to see that. Anyone could see it."

"Uh, thanks?" Stiles still looks suspicious. "I mean, I appreciate the sentiment as much as the next fat guy. But if there's a reason for the spontaneous self-esteem pep talk, maybe you could cut to it? You're making me nervous."

Derek is feeling nervous himself.

"Is this supposed to be a break-up speech?"

"What? No. Never."

Stiles's eyes widen. "Never?"

"Yeah, probably never, Stiles," Derek says. Before Stiles can — correctly — read too much into that, he takes a breath and blurts out, "Look, I like that you're heavy."

Stiles glances down at his generous stomach — it's still pushing into Derek — and then back up. "Right, man, I think I got that by now."

Derek sighs. "No. It's more than that. When you were too heavy for my scale... I liked that, too."

"Okay?"

This would be so much easier if Stiles would just immediately get it. And then Derek could leave the talking part to him and not have to contribute more than yes or no answers to the rest of this conversation. Or maybe he could simply skip the rest of this conversation together.

But Stiles just looks at him, waiting.

Derek takes a deep breath. "I like that the new scale might not even work for you anymore, either."

"Oh," Stiles says. He shifts his weight on Derek's legs. "You think I weigh 300 pounds?"

"I don't know." Twenty pounds in just four months seems like a lot. But Stiles is feeling so _big_ lately. "That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?" Stiles pushes himself off Derek's lap onto the couch beside him. Derek lets him go this time. "That I've gained weight?"

"No." Derek runs a frustrated hand through his hair. "Not really."

"Not really?"

"No. The point is that I _like_ that you've gained weight."

Stiles is quiet where he's tucked on the couch beside him, arm laid across his round stomach.

Derek can't tell if he understands, so he's forced to continue, "Look, Stiles, thinking you were attractive when you weighed 282 pounds was normal. And thinking you're attractive whatever you weigh now is normal, too."

"Maybe for a certain very specific definition of normal," Stiles interrupts. "I think your perspective might be a little—"

"But," Derek talks over him. If he doesn't get this out now, he never will. " _Liking_ that you can't fit in any of the clothes you were wearing the day we met? Not just not caring, but thinking it's really hot that you can't? That's not normal, is it?"

"Hey, I can fit in my red hoodie—"

"Are you intentionally missing the point here?" Derek demands. "And, no, you can't, by the way. You couldn't even zip it last time you tried."

Stiles looks like he's going to keep arguing, but then he tilts his head and stares at him. "Huh."

Derek waits.

"So, this is you finally admitting you have a kink?"

Derek sighs and looks across his living room for a long moment. "I don't know. I didn't think so. But then you brought it up and I ..." He turns back to Stiles. "Have you ever been with someone who's gained weight?"

"Um. Maybe a few pounds?" Stiles says. He gives his stomach a self-deprecating rub. "That's usually my job, though."

"I didn't know it would be like this," Derek says quietly. He covers Stiles's hand on his belly, moving it over to the fattest part so he, too, can feel how big he's gotten. "You were already so heavy, Stiles. But feeling you get even bigger, it's been so ..." He wishes he had the right words. "Look, I don't objectify you. I don't _want_ to objectify you."

Stiles looks at him intently. "But you want me to gain more weight?"

"No," Derek says. Then he hesitates. "What was it you wanted me to say that day? The other time you asked me that?"

Stiles clucks his tongue. "Nuh uh." He repositions himself on the couch. "There is Derek Hale answer time."

"Look," Derek says, turning to face him fully. "Even if I have a — kink — I don't know if it's too much, or not enough. Or if it's even the one you wanted me to have."

"Dude." Stiles scoots closer, putting a hand on his thigh. "If I was overthinking your answer to that question, you're definitely still overthinking the question."

"But I like more than just your weight, Stiles," Derek argues, frustrated. He jumps off the couch and paces across the living room. When he gets to the free weights next to the TV, he turns around and gives Stiles a helpless look. "I like that you're a little out of shape. I like that you might not fit in my lap if you don't cut back on the donuts soon. I like that we have to adjust things in bed for your stomach. And I like that you'd have to hold it up for a blowjob. I wish you weren't too embarrassed to do it. I think it would be really ..."

Derek trails off.

Stiles's eyes had been growing wider with every word he forced out, and now he's just staring. His cheeks are flushed and he's biting his lip.

He looks embarrassed right now. The lights are too dim and Derek can't tell from across the room whether it's the sexy turned-on kind of embarrassed he sometimes gets about his weight. Or if it's just an embarrassed kind of embarrassed.

Derek's chest tightens.

He'd known there was a chance — a good chance — that this wouldn't be what Stiles wanted to hear. But he hadn't realized until hearing himself say it all out loud how much of an imposition it sounds like. Especially when he knows Stiles doesn't like any of the inconveniences of being fat. He puts up with them at best.

Maybe Stiles would prefer a boyfriend who simply loved his body and left it at that. The kind of boyfriend Derek thought he himself was.

When Stiles is still silent, Derek looks away. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. Can we just forget it?" His eyes light on the kitchen and he awkwardly asks, "Do you want some dinner?"

"What? No!" Stiles exclaims. "I don't want to forget it." He pushes himself off the couch. Now that he's finally talking, the words come out in a rush. "I like it."

Derek thinks of Stiles saying that same thing the other day, when he let him rub off against his stomach, and winces.

"You don't have to like it," Derek assures him.

"I don't have to?" Stiles repeats, sounding incredulous. He grabs Derek's arms, making him face him. "I don't have to like that my scorching hot boyfriend digs my fat bod?"

"But that's not all I like —"

"Dude, I got that, yeah." Stiles waves an impatient hand. "So my boyfriend's a bit kinky after all. I know I don't _have_ to like it. And, okay, maybe the next fat guy might not appreciate getting called out on being such a fat-ass that _sex_ is difficult."

Difficult is hardly the word Derek would use, but Stiles plows on before he can protest.

"But didn't I tell you I thought it'd be fun if you had a fat kink?" Stiles asks. "And if you think I haven't googled what fat kink meant, you clearly don't know me at all. You could've just said this then, you know."

"Are you sure you don't mind?" Derek asks.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Look, man, it's fine." He grins. "It's more than fine. I promise. I'm going to take care of all of it, don't worry."

"Okay." Derek exhales fully for the first time since this conversation started. Then he realizes what Stiles just said. "Wait, you'll take care of _what_ exactly?"

"Don't worry about it." Stiles beams at him in a less than reassuring way. "Just leave the overthinking to me from now on, deal?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple disclaimers --
> 
> First, the kink quiz here is made up. It's inspired by one I saw a few years ago but I couldn't find it again. Don't take any of this as real-life advice -- if I'm not qualified to give that, Stiles and Derek *definitely* aren't.
> 
> Second, the characters (*cough*Derek*cough*) might be a little judgmental. Please know this isn't meant as kink-shaming on my part, but an attempt at consistent characterization.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

On Derek's next day off, he comes back from the gym to find a printed-out packet sitting on his kitchen counter. It's a quiz. A long one, apparently. There's a hand-drawn legend with Derek's name in green, Stiles's in blue, and a green pen laid beside it.

A blue "Have fun!" is scrawled at the top, punctuated by a smiley-face.

The very title of the quiz makes Derek's stomach twist with dread.

When he gets out of the shower, there's a text waiting on his phone.

**> >** too much?

There's no question what Stiles is referencing.

Derek eyes the packet on the other side of the kitchen and then turns to the fridge for ingredients for his post-workout shake.

He wonders what would happen if he said yes. If Stiles would agree to forget all about it.

But he's learned that agreements to forget a topic have statutes of limitations with Stiles. And he dreads to think what alternative he might come up with.

So he types,

**>** _it's fine_

He gets a reply right away.

**> >** awesome!  
 **> >** we'll compare answers tonight

Stiles has a meeting at court this morning. Derek spares a probably futile hope that he's not texting about this from some judge's office.

**> >** careful with the googling though  
 **> >** no, leave the googling to me  
 **> >** ask me if you need a definition

**> >** and just answer honestly man. no wrong answers!

Derek swallows. He can't imagine that a quiz prefaced with a warning for "safe, sane, and consensual" could be anything but a minefield of wrong answers.

He sits down with his protein shake, the green pen, and the ominous "Kink Negotiation for Chubby Chasers and Chasees".

It's at least ten pages long, and scattered with cross-references and links that would presumably work if it was online. Derek's alone in his apartment, but just the names of the sections make him feel as exposed as the whole conversation with Stiles had the other day.

They also make him wish Stiles had given him a pencil instead of a pen.

Stiles comes over that night bearing Chinese take-out and two six-packs of beer.

He's still in the suit he'd had to wear for court. His jacket is unbuttoned, white dress shirt tucked into his pants. It emphasizes the weight of his belly and how it falls, heavy, over the waistband.

Not that many months ago, this shirt had fit comfortably. Now, when Derek comes up to him and traces down the buttons, he feels the fabric pucker around Stiles's belly button.

Stiles's round cheeks flush at the attention.

Derek would normally goad Stiles about how tight his suit's gotten, but, right now, all he can think about is which "Kink Negotiation for Chubby Chasers and Chasees" category that would fall into.

But he doesn't have to say it, because Stiles clears his throat and says, "I, uh, don't remember it being this tight."

Derek raises his eyes. "It wasn't last time."

"I think it shrunk in the wash.

Derek hums, squeezing his lower belly, where it's doughy even under the snug shirt.

"I look fat, don't I?"

Derek takes in his sheepish smile and the embarrassed-turned-on flush of his cheeks. Normally Stiles would suck his tummy in and issue cutely indignant denials about his increasing weight. But, since Derek's awkward, halting confession the other night, he's been the one teasing Derek about it.

It reminds him of the picture Stiles had sent him weeks ago, when he'd gotten too fat to button his own jeans.

Derek wishes he'd had the words back then to tell Stiles how he felt.

It might have gotten him more pictures.

Even better, he might have gotten "Kink Negotiation for Chubby Chasers and Chasees" over with by now, too.

"Yeah, you look fat, Stiles," Derek can't resist confirming. He steps closer, letting Stiles's soft body filling the space between them, and he slides his hands over the fat rolls at his waist. "You look good."

But when he tries to tug his shirt out of his waistband, Stiles pushes his hands away.

"No funny business, dude," he admonishes. "We've got work to do."

"And turn your air conditioner on," Stiles calls out as he heads off to change into the sweats he keeps at Derek's. "Some of us are too fat for summer."

Derek finds Stiles's quiz, filled out in blue ink, in between the cartons of Chinese.

After the long introduction about consent and communication, and after a fill-in-the-blank for a safe word — which Derek had thought a little excessive and left blank but Stiles had put 'turtle' — the quiz is divided into sections. Sections with their own sub-sections to fill out based on the answers.

Each question has columns to check, ranging from TURN-ON and UP FOR IT to MAYBE and TURN-OFF and HARD NO.

It doesn't take flipping through too many pages to realize that Stiles's checkmarks skew far more to the middle and left than Derek's do. He'd even had to fill out sub-sections that Derek's HARD NOs had let him skip.

Before Derek can do more than skim Stiles's scribbled annotations — " _sorry dude my stomach's not actually a bottomless pit_ " and " _not averse to a little pain play but I'd probably rupture your spleen_ " — he's interrupted with a, "Hey, no peeking!"

A few minutes later, Stiles hands a beer to Derek and says, "Relax, dude. This is supposed to be fun."

"I am relaxed," Derek protests, sitting down stiffly on the couch.

Stiles snorts. "Right, my mistake."

To be fair, Derek is marginally less tense than he'd been before he'd gotten at peek at Stiles's answers and hadn't found columns of judgmental HARD NOs.

But, compared to Stiles, who's clearly completely at ease with this whole thing —

"You've done this before," Derek suddenly realizes.

"Well, not this particular one. But I'm not a stranger to choosing a safe word, if you know that I mean." Stiles winks at him as he settles in next to him on the couch with a carton of Sweet and Sour Pork. "Everyone's a little kinky."

Derek looks at him. Apparently he's been too busy denying having a fat fetish to think of it before. He wants to kick himself. "Stiles, is there something you ... like? That we could do?"

Stiles isn't usually shy about asking for exactly what he needs. But it still must be obvious to him that he's the more experienced of the two of them. Despite his frequent self-deprecation — and being five years younger — he's clearly had quite a few more partners than Derek.

And then there are all the times he's hinted that he's "open-minded" — 

But Stiles just waves a hand, careless of the precariously balanced piece of pork on his fork.

"Nah. I'm just good, giving and game. Well, I'm good most of the time." He winks. "Now," he makes grabby hands for Derek's packet, "gimme." 

_"Kink Negotiation for Chubby Chasers and Chasees"_   
_I. Feeding & Stuffing_

"Huh," Stiles says. He's barely turned the first page.

Derek waits in anticipation.

"Not really what I'd expected." Stiles turns suspicious eyes onto him. "You know, this doesn't work if you don't answer honestly."

"I did," Derek protests.

"Is this like the weight gain thing? Claiming you don't want it just because you think I don't?"

"I've been honest every time I've said that, too, Stiles," Derek says, annoyed. They're not even on that section yet and apparently they're already going to argue about it.

"How am I supposed to know you're not angling for a Boyfriend of the Year award to hang next to that thing?" Stiles gestures to Derek's mantle, where Laura had forced Derek to hang his 'Firefighter of the Year 2016' medal.

"Apparently you aren't," Derek mutters.

But when he tries to take back his quiz, Stiles yelps and snatches it back. "What are you doing?"

"Stiles," Derek sighs, "if you don't trust me, there's no reason to do this."

"What? Of course I trust you," Stiles protests.

"But you don't believe me," Derek says flatly.

Filling out this quiz hadn't exactly been easy. Just reading the questions had left him uncomfortably exposed, let alone answering them.

Stiles's skepticism rankles.

"No, look, I'm sorry. I'll believe you, okay? Promise," Stiles says. He reaches out to squeeze Derek's thigh and concedes, "And, uh, yeah, I guess it _has_ been a while since you've forced food on me."

"I've never forced food on you," Derek argues. To be fair, at the beginning, he'd possibly been in the habit of ordering more take-out than Stiles would ask for. But only because Stiles hadn't wanted to eat his fill in front of "a six pack that has its own six pack" and Derek couldn't stand the longing looks he'd give the empty containers. Stiles's reluctance hadn't lasted long, though, and so neither had Derek's ordering for him.

He glances at Stiles's quiz. 

The beginning's fairly tame and Stiles's answers are a lot more, well, "game" than his own. Derek concedes a peace offering, "I could have put UP FOR IT to a few of these."

Stiles eyes him. 

"I mean, if you wanted, we could do them," Derek says. "I wouldn't mind."

"But watching me pig out really doesn't do it for you, huh?"

"Does it do it for you?" Derek asks.

The " _Feeding & Stuffing_" section gets a bit disturbing as it goes on. After looking up a few of the later entries, Derek had realized why Stiles had tried to forbid him from googling.

Even the beginning seems meant for people who can stress-eat a whole pizza without spending the rest of the night complaining about a stomachache. Or declaring themselves too fat for sex.

He hadn't expected Stiles to be disappointed in his answers here. He'd thought he'd be relieved that Derek _didn't_ want any of these things.

But Stiles shows Derek his already empty take-out carton and looks pointedly at Derek's barely touched steamed vegetables and chicken. "You're asking if it does it for _me_? Do I look like I mind making a pig out of myself?"

He leans forward to swap his empty carton for the Chow Mein on the coffee table, but grunts when the combination of Derek's low couch and the roundness of his belly get in the way.

Derek reaches to get it for him.

"But, I mean, I guess it doesn't give me a boner," Stiles continues, and glances at Derek. "I guess it doesn't give you one, either."

"I _like_ that you eat too much," Derek clarifies carefully. The last thing he wants is Stiles getting self-conscious about it again.

"What? You just like that I eat enough to maintain this hot bod without your help, then?" Stiles gestures at himself with a forkful of noodles.

Derek looks over his body. He's in comfortable sweats and a t-shirt, one chubby leg tucked up on the couch. His upper arms squish against his softened chest. His t-shirt hugs the enticing swell of his love handles. His belly, bigger and heavier than it's ever been, rests in his lap.

"You're doing more than maintaining it," Derek tells him.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a growing boy. Noted." Stiles rolls his eyes. "Nice segue to the gaining section, at least."


	4. Chapter 4

_"Kink Negotiation for Chubby Chasers and Chasees"_  
_II. Erotic Weight Gain_

Stiles's brows draw down in consternation as he looks at Derek's quiz.

Hoping to forestall what would now be a _third_ argument about this, Derek says, "Intentional weight gain."

"What?" Stiles turns his frown on Derek, dropping his fork back into the carton of Chow Mein.

Derek points out the first word of the first question. A HARD NO there had meant he hadn't been obligated to fill out any of the rest of the section.

Then he takes the blue pen and Stiles's own quiz, crosses out Stiles's MAYBE.

"Hey!" Stiles snatches his pen back. "You're not supposed to answer for me."

"Then you should have answered honestly," Derek says. "Or am I the only one who has to do that?"

"I'm not exactly on a diet, in case you didn't notice," Stiles argues.

"Are you really going to tell me that you ordered a third dish and extra egg rolls tonight just because you want to gain more weight?"

Stiles's eyes narrow.

"How many times have you told me you don't want to get fatter?"

"Okay, fine," Stiles says finally. But he still reaches over to scribble out the HARD NO and stubbornly adds a new checkmark next to the crossed-out MAYBE. "But I'm already fat, FYI, and it's not the worst."

"I'm still not okay with telling you what to do with your body," Derek says. "You know that."

"As if I'd ever let you tell me what to do," Stiles grumbles. Then he gestures at the " _Limits_ " question, following " _Goals_ ". "You could've at least answered this one, though."

"Stiles, what did I just say?" Derek asks. He wonders if Stiles can even hear himself.

"Well, excuse me for wanting to know when I'm going to get too fat for you." Stiles stuffs a forkful of Chow Mein into his mouth and shoots Derek a resentful look. "I'm already the fattest guy you've been with."

That was a fact Stiles had wheedled out of him not long after the scale had read 282, and something Derek has regretted ever since.

"You gave me a quiz for 'Chubby Chasers', Stiles," Derek says, feeling tired. "You can't actually think that's an issue."

"And you didn't even fill out this part, either," Stiles continues his complaints, pointing to " _Physical Fitness (or lack thereof)_ ". "I answered everything and I'm not even the one with the kink here, dude."

Derek picks Stiles's quiz back up again, feeling as frustrated as Stiles is sounding. But, once he sees the answers, he can't help a rueful smile despite himself. They include a believable HARD NO for " _Be a muscle chub_ " — annotated with a comment about leaving the muscle to Derek — and a TURN-ON for " _Avoid all exercise_ " — accompanied by a complaint about their broken elevator.

"Stiles," he starts.

"You get off on my out-of-shape ass," Stiles insists. "You said you did."

Derek sighs. "Look, it's complicated."

"Complicated," Stiles repeats flatly.

"Yes." Derek doesn't know what other words to use.

He thinks of the other night and Stiles riding him, heavy and flushed and panting — and needing more breaks to catch his breath than he'd used to.

A few months ago, Stiles had been getting in a bit better shape. But the combination of getting heavier and spending more nights at Derek's second-floor apartment — skipping the extra five flights to his own — hasn't exactly done his physical fitness any favors.

Derek should probably feel more guilty for enjoying it than he does.

He doesn't think Stiles is concerningly out of shape, though. Exertion might get him tired sooner than it should, but Derek can't imagine how the UP FOR IT Stiles had put for " _Stay sedentary_ " could possibly be feasible. Stiles's laziness is born more of impudence than fatigue. It's hard to imagine any version of Stiles capable of actually staying still.

Like right now, for example, as Stiles taps his foot impatiently, waiting for Derek to explain himself.

Derek says finally, "If you want to get in better shape and start watching your weight, or if you never do, either way it's none of my business, okay?"

Stiles opens his mouth.

"Look, you like that I work out, right?" Derek continues before Stiles can resume arguing. "But you don't tell me what to eat or how many crunches I should do, do you?"

Stiles's eyes widen, and he flails indignantly. "I'd never do that! Dude, if I like the results, it's because I'm only human. If you wanted to stop working out like some kind of madman I wouldn't tell you ..."

He trails off, eyes narrowing.

"You're trying to trick me."

Derek raises an eyebrow.

"You owe me 50 crunches for that," Stiles mutters darkly.

They negotiate.

After Stiles adds a new entry to " _Erotic Weight Gain_ " — "Stiles gets fat anyways" -- and Derek dutifully checks TURN-ON, they finally get to move on.

"Aha!" Stiles grins up at Derek. "Did we find something you actually filled out?"

Technically, Derek hadn't even had to. His HARD NO at the beginning of the weight gain section had exempted him from the entire rest of it. He'd almost taken the out. The implication of the progress in "*Measuring Progress*" makes him uneasy. But —

Well, no matter what Stiles believes, he had tried to be honest.

Still, he says, cautious, "Just because I might like this doesn't mean we have to do any of it, you know."

"Uh," Stiles says. His eyes dart down to his own quiz in Derek's hands.

Derek frowns and flips the page. He blinks.

"You really want to do —" Derek looks back up at him, incredulous. "— all of these?"

"I mean," Stiles says, looking sheepish. "I know the numbers might be kind of ..."

"Big," Derek finishes for him.

"Yeah."

Derek looks him up and down. "They might be really big."

Stiles nods, cheeks getting spots of color.

Derek glances down at Stiles's answers again, the checkmarks straight down the column labeled Turn-On.

The next section is the " _Teasing & Humiliation_" category. He'd wondered whether Stiles would admit how much teasing him about his weight turns him on.

He supposes this answers that question.

_"Kink Negotiation for Chubby Chasers and Chasees"_  
_III. Teasing & Humiliation_

Their answers match until Derek gets to the " _Humiliation_ " part. He picks up Stiles's blue pen again and crosses out his MAYBE.

Stiles snatches the pen back, though, before Derek can decide whether to correct it with TURN-OFF or HARD NO.

"I can handle a little teasing, dude," Stiles protests.

"It's not a matter of handling it," Derek tells him. He grabs for the blue pen again, but Stiles holds it away from him.

Stiles is feisty but Derek isn't the one weighed down by an extra hundred pounds — or the greasiest dishes on China Palace's menu — so he wrestles it back without much trouble.

Stiles kicks the side of his leg with a bare foot and says, "I'm the funny fat guy."

"Well, you're one of those two things," Derek mutters, turning back to the quiz.

Stiles kicks him again. "I heard that, asshole."

Derek eyes him. For all his prideful blustering, Stiles is still insecure about getting as big as he has. Derek can't picture him taking teasing that wasn't actually a compliment very well. Derek doesn't think he'd be capable of talking about Stiles's body without making his admiration obvious, anyways.

He has no desire to try, in any case. He certainly can't imagine pulling off calling him any of the names listed here.

But Stiles has managed to get his pen back and he's still complaining, "And you can't just keep changing my answers," as he reaches across Derek to re-tick the MAYBE box on his quiz.

Under " _Tight clothes_ ", Derek crosses out Stiles's MAYBEs. With how he stubbornly insists on wearing his clothes until he can't button them anymore — and Derek had barely known him a month before seeing him lose a button — Stiles has no ground to argue anything less than UP FOR IT.

Stiles gives him a grumpy look and adjusts his shirt, where it's gotten snug over his belly.

_"Kink Negotiation for Chubby Chasers and Chasees"_  
_IV. Fat Play_

Derek has to take Stiles's beer away when he snorts it up saying " _Tit play_ " out loud. But he hardly gets any more composed as he continues reading out select entries from the end of the quiz.

"I love your body," Derek blurts out, interrupting him.

Stiles pauses midway through reading out " _Fat roll sex_ ". "Uh, thanks, man?"

"I do," Derek says intently. Stiles's legs have ended up in his lap. Derek squeezes the plump inside of a thigh through his sweatpants and meets Stiles's light brown eyes. "But I don't think most of these things were supposed to have names."

Derek hadn't been thrilled to find some of the best parts being with heavy guys written down on this quiz, things he's never been embarrassed or ashamed for. Even things skinny couples could do somehow become perverted when listed in "Kink Negotiation for Chubby Chasers and Chasees" and given names like " _Lapsitting_ ".

He'd been even less thrilled to find that other things, things he would have never wanted to admit to thinking about, had ended up here, seemingly for the sole purpose of calling Derek out.

"Well." Stiles straightens up, propping himself up with an elbow on the back of the couch. He juts out his soft chin. "Not liking the names isn't going to get you out of finishing this part."

He smooths out Derek's quiz and flips back to the beginning of the section, eyeing Derek's green checkmarks.

"Alright, down to business. ' _Tit play_ '." Stiles looks to Derek, his attempt at a sober expression failing when he can't suppress a snicker.

Derek rolls his eyes. At least his boyfriend being a teenage boy at heart cuts through some of his tension.

"You actually filled this part out." Stiles cups his soft chest. "Are you trying to give me a hint, man? Am I getting moobs after all?"

"You're close."

Stiles gives his pecs a wobble, raising his eyebrows at Derek.

Derek looks down at Stiles's quiz, at the TURN-ONs he checked for most of them, and the UP FOR IT to the last one.

"You'd be up for ... this?" Derek asks.

"No. Lemme change that." Stiles grabs for his blue pen and takes his quiz from Derek's hands. He meets Derek's questioning gaze with a shrug. "You checked TURN-ON."

"That doesn't mean you have to," Derek tells him, eyeing where Stiles has now checked the same.

Stiles's lips quirk up. "Dude, you liking this shit kind of does it for me, in case you didn't notice."

"Right," Derek says. He clears his throat and glances back down at the quiz, trying to avoid meeting Stiles's intent gaze. "I don't think you're big enough for this one yet, though."

"Props for sneaking in that 'yet'. Nice and subtle there, man."

"Well, like you said, you're not exactly on a diet," Derek reminds him.

Stiles glances down at himself and tries to smoosh his soft pecs together. "You really don't think your manhood would fit here?"

Derek groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Seriously, Stiles? My manhood?"

Stiles waves a dismissive arm and continues, "What about ' _fat roll sex_ '? Am I big enough for that?"

Derek knows his hope that Stiles wouldn't want to talk these questions through had been overly optimistic. But it shouldn't have been too much to ask that he not be subjected to the sight of Stiles groping every body part mentioned on this infernal quiz.

"No," Derek answers, pained.

Stiles pouts and looks down at the thick love handles in his hands.

Derek doesn't even think those are the rolls this quiz is talking about, anyways. But they're the only ones Stiles usually has.

He might have generous inches of soft stomach rolling over his waistband, but his stomach only really folds into separate rolls when he leans over. His college pot belly is too stubbornly round underneath, and his new weight has only filled it out more.

"What about ' _navel sex_ ', then?" Stiles says.

"No."

Stiles pouts and pokes at his belly button. It's a deep shadow under his shirt, but not _that_ deep.

"Too bad you don't have a micropenis," he says with regret.

"Yeah, too bad," Derek repeats dryly.

"You did fit here, though, remember?" Stiles says, shifting on the couch to rub over his lower belly.

Derek rolls his eyes upward. He hasn't been able to _stop_ remembering. The humiliation of having actually asked for what the quiz calls " _belly sex_ " wars with the memory of how it had felt to be surrounded by plush, pliant fat.

"Did you like it?" Stiles asks innocently. He adjusts his stomach so that his shirt rides up further than it already was, showing off his pale, stretchmarked underbelly.

Derek's never seen Stiles touch himself the way he is tonight. "Kink Negotiation for Chubby Chasers and Chasees" has created a monster.

"Did you?" he asks, clearing his throat.

"You'd know the answer to that if you bothered looking at what I wrote," Stiles says.

Derek realizes he hasn't even picked up Stiles's quiz in a while. But instead of doing it now, he can't help reaching out, pushing his fingers gently into his underbelly.

"I did like it," Stiles confesses.

Derek hums and gives his stomach a gentle squeeze. 

Stiles had said that he'd liked it at the time, too, as he'd encouraged Derek to thrust against his stomach fat. Derek had thought Stiles was just doing him a favor. Maybe being the "good, giving and game" he claimed to be.

But Derek thinks about it now, about how sensitive Stiles is here. He likes to guide Derek's hands to his lower belly when he's close to coming. It's brought him over the edge more than once.

"I know," Derek tells him, realizing that he does know. He reaches down to where Stiles is tenting his sweatpants.

"Derek," Stiles whines. "We're not done yet."

"No?"

"You haven't even looked at my answers."

But Derek has realized he doesn't need to. Stiles's stretch marks are like arrows pointing to where most he likes to be touched, and rubbed, and squeezed. Behind the things that shouldn't have been given names — and certainly not _these_ names — are things that Stiles likes as much as he does. 

"I'll read them later," Derek promises, giving a chubby, stretchmarked hip a squeeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another reminder that none of this is actual advice on kink negotiation. Your author is not at all qualified to give it, and I'm pretty sure it's also not the best etiquette to do things like change one's partners answers.
> 
> I hope this part was interesting. I've never written anything quite like this before. I have to confess the entirety of the plot for this and the previous fic originally took up about five lines in A Neighborly Wager. Lines I deleted because I couldn't picture these two being able to go from misunderstanding to clarification to revelation so efficiently.
> 
> Anyways, one more chapter to go!
> 
> (PS - if any of you have a link to a real-life chubby kink negotiation quiz, please let me know, I'd love to link to it)


	5. Chapter 5

Derek is 30 hours into a 36-hour shift when Stiles texts him a picture of a scale.

It's sitting alone on the tiled floor of Derek's bathroom. Derek's towels and bath rug are black, but the scale's tacky pink flowers still manage to clash with them.

Its display is blank.

The next morning, Derek gets back from his run to find his overweight boyfriend blocking the doorway to the bathroom, impish grin on his face.

"Finally. That took forever. You're getting slow in your old age, man," Stiles says.

Derek rolls his eyes as he takes him in. Stiles is leaning sideways in the door. Derek's Station 128 sweatshirt hugs his round middle, and his pajama bottoms are snug over his chubby bottom and thighs. 

As he tries to tug Derek in for a kiss, Derek catches the smell of mint toothpaste — and the sight of the garish pink scale set up on the bathroom floor.

"I need a shower," Derek informs him.

"No, you don't," Stiles says. "I like you sweaty."

Derek gives him a skeptical look.

"Dude, everyone has their thing. You like fat guts. I like glistening abs." Stiles draws a finger down Derek's torso. "What happened? You lose your shirt again?"

"The outside isn't air conditioned, Stiles. It's at least 85 degrees out there," Derek tells him. Then he gestures at the scale. "Did you finally weigh yourself or is that just here for decoration?"

"Not yet." Stiles tilts his head contemplatively and adds, "You could use some color in here."

Derek opens his mouth.

"And, no, black is not a color." Stiles steps back out of Derek's way. "You go first."

"Why am I getting on?" Derek asks. "There's no bet this time."

"There could be," Stiles says. "We could bet on —"

Derek doesn't let him get it out. "No."

Stiles looks disappointed. "Fine, then, it's just tradition."

Derek sighs. But Stiles gestures to the scale again and Derek, giving his own reflection in the mirror a commiserating look, steps on.

"181," Stiles says, after he's nudged in to see. He frowns up at Derek. "Dude, you _lost_ three pounds. I knew you looked skinny after the wildfire."

"People's weight goes up and down, Stiles. It's normal." Derek steps off the scale. "Plus, I probably lost at least three pounds of sweat out there this morning."

Stiles still looks discontent. "Aren't you supposed to gain weight in a relationship? You'd think I'd be rubbing off on you."

"Like I'm rubbing off on you?" Derek raises his eyebrows, looking pointedly at his midsection.

Stiles's eyes narrow. "Touché."

When he gets into position to step on, Derek stops him, gripping his hips from behind. "No one weighs themselves in their clothes, Stiles."

"Is that right?" Stiles twists his head around.

"A wise man told me that."

"If you want my clothes off, you have to take them off yourself," Stiles tells him.

"Lazy," Derek says. But he slides his hands up under Stiles's sweatshirt, and the t-shirt underneath it. He squeezes where his plump hips spread over the waist of his plaid pajama pants, and then rubs up his chubby back.

Stiles raises his arms to help him as he pushes his shirt and sweatshirt together up over his head.

Derek steps in closer and circles his arms around Stiles's waist. Then he looks over Stiles's shoulder into the mirror they're facing. Stiles's hair is still sleep-rumpled.

"Good morning, Stiles," Derek tells him.

He sees Stiles's lips twitch. "Morning, Derek."

Derek touches the puffy flesh right above Stiles's belly button, watching in the mirror. If he had a measuring tape, this is where he'd measure, he thinks. He'd coax Stiles not to suck his tummy in — because Derek's sure he'd try — and he'd hold the tape loose so it wouldn't sink into the softness.

Before seeing it on the quiz, he'd never thought about measuring Stiles's waist. He has no clue why the thought does it for him — but he's sure Stiles can feel his hardening cock against his soft bottom.

He has little frame of reference for what a number would mean, anyways. He doesn't know what Stiles's waistline was before, and he's sure Stiles doesn't. And Derek's never been with anyone who's volunteered their weight before, let alone their waist size. He's never been with anyone who filled out 2XL shirts as well as Stiles does either. 

Derek's own measurements wouldn't even help much, not when his 32-inch pants leave room to spare at the waist.

He traces his hands over Stiles's thick waist.

He wonders, in any case, if getting that kind of measurement would actually be the turn-on Stiles had anticipated when he'd answered the quiz. His newest pants size is so big he'll only allow it spoken in whispers. The pants fit him well, but only because he fastens them under his belly. His actual waist must be several inches larger.

Derek decides he's not going to bring it up unless Stiles does. He presses a kiss into the side of Stiles's neck, and rubs down his belly.

Watching Stiles's eyes, Derek slips his hands under his belly, cradling the weight of his stomach. In the mirror, Stiles watches with quiet, rapt attention, a self-conscious flush coloring his round cheeks.

Derek lets his belly sink back down under its own heaviness.

"Jesus, Derek," Stiles says quietly, breaking the silence in the bathroom. "I'm really fat."

"You are," Derek says. He gives his stomach a soothing rub.

"What are you thinking about?"

"That," Derek tells him. He adds, "You look so fucking good."

Stiles gives him a small, pleased smile. He slips a hand over Derek's on his round stomach, lacing their fingers together.

Derek remembers the pink-flowered scale in front of them. He thinks he knows what it's going to say. Stiles has never looked so fat before.

"You don't have to get on the scale, Stiles," he tells him.

"You don't think I need to?" Stiles asks. He turns around in Derek's arms, bare belly bumping into Derek's as he bats his eyes with faux innocence. 

"I think you _need_ to," Derek says. He adds, more softly, "But you don't have to."

Stiles meets his eyes, an expression Derek can't quite read on his face. "You're worried I won't like the number."

Derek still remembers Stiles's reaction the last time he stepped on this scale. Stiles has said multiple times since then that he doesn't want to get to 300 pounds, but he's hardly done anything to stop that from happening.

He's _definitely_ not going to like the number today. If the scale even gives him a number at all, that is. For all that Stiles might have checked TURN-ON to the idea of getting back on it, Derek wonders if learning he's outgrown a second scale would be on the right or wrong side of embarrassing for him. 

"It's going to be more than 282 pounds," Derek warns him.

"Well, yeah." Stiles laughs. "It might be a bit more."

Derek starts to correct him, but Stiles just grins at him, shaking his head.

"I know, I know. It'll be more than a bit more." He ducks his eyes sheepishly. "I might've weighed myself a few weeks ago."

"You ... did?"

He nods.

Derek certainly hadn't been expecting that.

Stiles's mouth curves up into a wry smile. "I knew I'd put on a few."

"A few," Derek repeats dumbly.

"But last time I'd put on a few, I thought it was twenty, twenty-five pounds, at most. But then I was too fat for your scale, remember?"

Derek clears his throat, staring at him. "You know I remember."

"So, I thought it might be better to get a handle on it sooner rather than later this time," Stiles says.

"And did you get a handle on it?" Derek looks him up and down.

Stiles snorts. "Does it _look_ like I got a handle on it?"

"It really doesn't," Derek tells him.

"Well, then."

Derek rubs a hand down his chubby side. This explains why Stiles hasn't seemed to be in his usual amount of denial about his weight lately. "So, what did it say?"

"I thought you wanted to see."

Derek nods. He does want to see. Even more now that he doesn't have to worry how Stiles will take it.

"It might not say the same thing it did before," Stiles says. "I wasn't kidding about the stress-eating while you were gone."

Stiles steps out of his pajama pants, and then steps on the scale.

Derek lets his hand trail over the back of his chubby waist as he moves around Stiles to see.

He blinks down at the number. He glances at Stiles, then the scale again.

"What did it say last time?" he asks.

"Uh, 298." Stiles is leaning forward, pushing his belly in with a hand as he peers over it. "I thought this was supposed to max at 300."

Derek looks down at the scale again, and the words printed amidst the pink flowers under Stiles's bare toes: _300 lbs / 136 kg Maximum_.

"It is," Derek confirms.

On the display, 304.5 blinks out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I lied about this story being shorter than the previous one. I should really stop making predictions based on my first drafts.
> 
> But thanks for reading, and hope you enjoyed!


End file.
